


Pyrrhic Victory

by fluentisona



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:00:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluentisona/pseuds/fluentisona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirteen conversations between Albus and Aberforth Dumbledore, starting a week after Ariana’s death and ending a week before Albus is killed. It is a story that deals with almost everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pyrrhic Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Written before Pottermore was released.

_September 1, 1899_

  


“So you’ve decided not to return to Hogwarts?” Aberforth was cleaning a glass with a dirty rag and Albus was trying not to point out the insanity of rubbing away germs with a rag filthier than the Hog’s Head floor. Considering the events that had taken place eight days before, he didn’t think he had the right to comment on anyone’s insanity but his own. 

Aberforth left their home the night of Ariana’s funeral. The two brothers shared no words after their fist fight in the middle of the eulogy, which resulted in a broken nose for Albus and broken hearts for both of them. So Albus watched his brother floo to the Leaky Cauldron in silence, as he had a feeling that nothing he said would change Aberforth’s mind. As the green flames whirled around his brother’s feet, Albus felt as though he was losing both his siblings in less than a week. 

It took a week and a half for Albus to work up the courage to look for him. While he was most definitely a Gryffindor, something about his brother always unnerved Albus, and made it difficult to hold his ground whenever Aberforth was around. That was probably why their duel had gotten so out of hand, but he really didn’t want to think about that. He asked around, or, in truth, he had Elphias ask around, because that was something best mates did. They finally found out that Aberforth was a recent hire at the Hogs’ Head in Hogsmeade, and since Elphias had business up at the Apothecary that weekend, Albus saw no harm in tagging along and maybe having a conversation with his brother about going back to school, the current status of Madame Bagshot’s book, or, well, anything. What Albus needed, more than anything right then, was some sort of relationship with the only person who could understand what had just happened. 

The trip to Hogsmeade was a quick one. They aparated into an old shack that belonged to the Doge family and then parted ways. Elphias went up the street for the apothecary and Albus walked down the road for Hogs’ Head. The older Dumbledore opened the pub door with trepidation making every breath hollow and shaky, and when the younger Dumbledore saw him, neither brother could remember how to breathe. But Albus’ Gryffindor courage won out before Aberforth’s Slytherin cunning could plan a quick escape, and he pushed through the door to take a seat at the bar. For three hours, Aberforth blatantly ignored him. But now the pub was closed, the customers were gone, and there was nothing in the room for Aberforth to use to feign distraction. 

Aberforth finished with the glass and placed it behind the counter. He ran his finger down the spine of the cupboard and watched as it locked itself up for the night. Two in the morning was much too late to be having the following conversation, but he knew Albus wasn’t about to let it go. His brother was never the type of person who allowed life to occur naturally. He was born to pull, to coerce, to lead. Aberforth would never admit it, especially not now, when neither of them knew which one had the murder of their sister on his hands, but he envied his big brother that. 

“It’s a bit late to be asking that,” Aberforth replied, looking at the clock on the wall, “About eight hours too late.” It wasn’t that they didn’t have the money for it. No one knew how Ariana died, and the only other person who could have revealed the Dumbledores’ secret was half-way to Germany by then, no doubt. So while Aberforth was packing up his belongings, Albus had owled the Ministry of Magic to report Ariana’s suicide. Since her death was recorded as such, there wasn’t a freeze on the Dumbledore accounts. Albus and Aberforth now held between them the entirety of the Dumbledore fortune, which was much greater than their previous living quarters would have led one to suspect. 

But Aberforth couldn’t figure out what going back to school would mean for him. He was sixteen, he had barely scraped by with three OWLs, and he had absolutely no idea what he wanted to do for the rest of his life. What he did know was: Albus had the brains in the family, though Aberforth wouldn’t consider himself stupid; Aberforth was good with his hands and good with his alcohol, so maybe this gig would be permanent; Ariana was decidedly dead, dead in a way that was irreversible unless Gellert found the stone and Aberforth had the chance to kill him again; and since her death he couldn’t find it in him to care about things as trivial as Transfiguration marks and Potions exams. 

“I’m going to stay here, Albus. I don’t really care what you choose to do. I’ll be of age in a month.” Living without magic was something all three Dumbledores had learned to do after Ariana’s incident, so Aberforth wasn’t afraid of a month living as a muggle. He was, however, afraid of another month relying on Albus to live. He wasn’t sure, in that moment, if he loved his older brother of if he hated him, but he knew that the last thing he wanted was his big brother’s help. In fact, he was pretty sure he never wanted to have to trust Albus ever again. 

Albus nodded his head, not completely paying attention. He was tired, so achingly tired, and he knew that his night would be spent lingering between wakefulness and sleep, his brain too unfocused and his heart too broken for him to fully relax. He still couldn’t comprehend the immensity of what had happened. In less than a fortnight, he had lost what he thought was going to be his life’s work, the man he loved absolutely, the sister he thought he could have saved, and the brother who knew him better than he knew himself. He felt empty in a way that denoted the inability to ever be full again. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t seem to feel anything. 

“And the rest of your life? You’re just going to throw it away?” any other situation, any other time, and Albus’s words would have been infused with indignation and disbelief. Aberforth had always been so flippant about his magic, about his education in its entirety. While Albus had dedicated every waking moment of his life to understanding his magic and the magical world around him, Aberforth shrugged off his innate powers like one shrugs off a winter shawl on the first day of spring. But at that moment, the words were lifeless, a simple question, to which neither boy seemed to particularly care about the answer. 

Aberforth made his way out from behind the counter and began to walk upstairs. Albus pushed himself to his feet to take his leave. He knew better than to stay where he was not wanted. Before heading upstairs, however, Aberforth turned around again. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it up again. 

“I’m not throwing it away just because I’m not following in your footsteps, older brother,” Aberforth argued, his words quiet but his tone harsh. While Albus was always one to talk things through, Aberforth never had an issue throwing a punch or a perfectly timed curse to settle his arguments. “You don’t need to look out for me anymore, Albus. You’ve already proven that you’re absolute shite at it.” With that, Aberforth moved to the steps and began his assent, not even bothering with a goodbye. Albus waited for more, but the conversation seemed to have ended. He made his way to the door, pulled his cloak around him, and left the building. Outside, Elphias was waiting, watching as Albus decided in which direction he would take his next step. 

  


_June 9, 1909_

  


Albus walked into the Hog’s Head for the first time in almost ten years and sat down at the counter. Written correspondence with Aberforth-which was illegible at best and nonexistent at worst-had informed him that his younger brother had taken over ownership of the bar, and the goat farm in the back, three years ago. It was a wedding present from the previous owner, who Ab seemed to love like a father and of whom Albus could never quite remember the name.

Albus, despite everything, hadn’t been callous enough to miss the wedding of his only brother. The bride, one Siobhan Macmillan, was a beautiful Scottish lass with eyes the color of August wheat and hair as dark as a moonless night. Albus had thought her the perfect match for his brother, and had even ventured to say as much. His present to the newlyweds had been a tea-set, much like the one Kendra Dumbledore once owned. Aberforth had a sneaking suspicion it was the tea-set their mother had once owned, hunted down by Albus from pawn shop to pawn shop. Albus neither denied nor confirmed his suspicion, which probably made it true. 

After Albus entered the pub, Aberforth ignored him for the first half hour. Albus took the silent treatment pretty well, considering how rare it was that he was ignored. In fact, he was pretty sure Aberforth was the only wizard-or witch-that Albus had ever met who could steadily ignore the “Greatest Wizard since Godric.” It was a stupid moniker, but the world painted him brilliant and that was something no man with as much pride as Albus Dumbledore could argue or deny.

At half-past ten, Aberforth placed a glass of Goblin Brandy in front of him. It was filled twice as high as such a glass would have been normally. Albus didn’t bother to look at his brother, because he knew Aberforth would say something with or without his prompting. “You look like you need it,” was all his brother said in way of explanation. Albus drank the glass in one gulp, and settled down to be ignored for the rest of the night. 

At midnight, Albus grew tired of watching the other patrons throw furtive looks at him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter, dated three weeks before but already as well-read as his favorite childhood book. He knew the words by heart, despite the fact that it was three pages long. The handwriting tugged at heartstrings he thought were ruined and begged him for regret he didn’t seem to have. He looked at the words without reading them, the black ink dancing before his eyes like a slow Austrian waltz. For the first time in ten years, he could feel his heart beating. For the first time in ten years, he felt alive. 

“What is it?” Aberforth asked, catching the wild glint in his brother’s eyes and instantly becoming defensive. He was standing behind the bar fiddling with the wireless, which had been acting up all night. Siobhan was doing rounds of the pub, her robes flitting around her as she moved from table to table. She looked as though she had been born in a pub, instead of on an aethonon farm. Albus hadn’t noticed her until then, and he was surprised to see a bulge in her stomach that belied Aberforth’s empty letters that claimed there was no news to be shared. 

Albus didn’t attempt to hide the letter, which would have been the first reaction for most people. Instead, he held it up for Aberforth to look at. Like Albus, Aberforth recognized the handwriting immediately. He had come across enough love letters and instructions left by Gellert during their two short months together that he could recognize that handwriting half-blind and blind-drunk. “What the bloody hell does he want?” the anger in his brother’s voice was not unwarranted, but Albus still had the need to defend his best friend. 

Because that was still what Gellert was to him. Strip away the ten years of silence, the war the loomed ahead of them, and the death of his baby sister, and Albus Dumbledore still considered Gellert Grindelwald to be his very best friend. Maybe, too, the most evil wizard in the history of man, but that wasn’t something that changed Albus’ love for him. 

Albus didn’t give his brother the letter. He folded it neatly and put it back into his breast pocket, where it kept time against the beating of his heart. “He wanted to congratulate me,” Albus said, remembering the words he had etched into his memory in only a few days, “Said he was proud of me.” 

Aberforth banged his right fist against the table, causing a few of the patrons to avert their stares from one brother to the other. “What right has he to be proud of you?” he hissed. “Didn’t he forfeit that right the day he killed Ariana?” 

Albus looked at his younger brother and forced himself not to shrivel before the fire in Aberforth’s eyes. He was a magnificent dueler, quite adept in both light magic and dark magic, a natural master at both charms and transfiguration. Already, he was feared and respected by wizards thrice his age. Why, then, did a simple disapproving look from his younger brother cause him to shirk back in fear? 

“What makes you so sure he was the one who killed Ariana?” Aberforth didn’t have an answer for that, so Albus continued. “Why shouldn’t he congratulate me?” The pride that would haunt Albus for the rest of his life was at an all time high that week. He had just been given the title of Grand Sorcerer after he and Nicholas Flamel created the Philosopher’s Stone. Theoretically, it meant they could both live forever. In actuality, they had no idea what could happen next, only that they were in the midst of a grand experiment. Only the Merlin Talisman had been able to create the Philosopher’s Stone, and reproducing the great wizard’s greatest achievement led to both the men who had been working on the stone receiving international acclaim. Flamel obviously was given more credit than Dumbledore, as Albus had only signed on as an apprentice to the great alchemist ten years ago. Flamel, who was well over five hundred years old and had been working with various cures for mortality since his Hogwarts’ days, was also a founder of the Fountain of Youth and a co-creator of the Elixir of Life. He obviously deserved the Order of Magic that had been bestowed upon him by the Supreme Mugwump. However, being named Grand Sorcerer at the age of twenty-eight was an unprecedented feat, and Albus was proud of himself. 

The two men looked at one another for a moment. Aberforth, this time, was the first to lower his eyes. “I’m sure he killed her because I can’t accept it was you or me. And he shouldn’t congratulate you because we both know he’s only interested in what it means for him.” Aberforth brought his eyes back up to meet his brother’s, “Or do you still believe he can be redeemed?” 

Albus thought of their grand plans for Wizard-Muggle integration. He thought of the numerous news reports coming in from the Continent, all of which described a darkness spreading through Europe-if one knew how to read between the lines. He thought of “The Greater Good” and all the deaths Gellert was sacrificing to it. Then his mind wandered to the muscles that moved so purposefully beneath his lover’s skin. It wandered to the heat that radiated between them whenever they had made love. It wandered to that last kiss, quick and painful and shared over the corpse of his dead sister. “I was, wasn’t I?” 

Aberforth’s gaze seemed to see right through him-through the false humility, through a decade of research and doing right, through all of it-down to the dreams that woke him up at night, sweating and moaning with Gellert’s name on his lips. Albus hated how Aberforth always seemed to know him best. 

“I haven’t decided yet.” 

  


_December 23, 1915_

  


Albus stayed with Nicholas for another year after the success of the stone. They continued to do alchemy-related research for most of it. By August of 1910, however, Nicholas was looking for a new apprentice, because Albus was pretty sure he had learned all he could from the older man. Madame Flamel, who was always so nice to him, gave Albus a ten pound bag of cookies and a set of quills that had to have cost her a fortune. Albus thanked her graciously for both gifts, and tried not to eat the cookies all in one sitting. 

He bought a flat in Hogsmeade with the money he had saved up from the apprenticeship, and had Aberforth, Siobhan, and baby Caoime over for dinner every Sunday. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and every once in a while the two brothers could have a conversation that transcended the binds of civility and actually bordered on ambivalent. When he wasn’t spending time with his family, Albus was doing research for the Potions Master at Hogwarts, Professor Dippet. Dippet had been his Potions’ teacher when he was a student, and the two had kept in touch through Albus’s apprenticeship. When Albus left, he wrote to Dippet asking if he was still interested in taking Albus on as a research assistant. Dippet wrote back with a yearly stipend, the research topic, and a written promise that any research performed by Albus would be his and his alone. 

It was too good of an offer to refuse, so Albus accepted on the spot. 

After three years of ridiculous hours spent in the potions’ lab, on dragon reserves, and in libraries with tombs older than the Founders, Albus Dumbledore made a magical breakthrough that changed the study of potions forever. He found not one, not six, but twelve uses for dragon’s blood-which was previously considered as sacred as unicorn’s blood. Was he losing pieces of his soul every time he drank the blood to confirm a hypothesis? Albus couldn’t be sure, as he wasn’t entirely positive he had much soul left to lose. 

The discovery led to a new job, this time within the walls of his old school. On July 1, 1913, Albus Dumbledore officially took the post of Transfiguration Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was a defining point in his life, and even as he signed the contract, he was aware of that. Half way into his second year as a teacher, Albus received a letter that would again define his entire life-for better or for worse, he wasn’t yet sure. 

Albus received the letter five days before Christmas. It was delivered by a tawny owl that Albus hadn’t recognized, but the collar on the owl’s throat was undeniable-the sign of the Deathly Hallows was inscribed on a gold name plate. The owl’s name was Wulfric, which caused Albus to laugh. The sound was foreign to his ears and tasted bitter on his lips. As he sat down to read the letter, he tried to remember the last time he had let a laugh escape. 

This letter was not three pages long. It was not even a full sentence. It was one piece of parchment folded in half and sealed with the crest of Grindelwald. In shaky, black letters that belied the lack of enthusiasm in the letter, Gellert had written: 

**_The wand. I’ve found it._**

That was it. Five words and Albus could feel his heart jump to his throat and his stomach fall to the floor. Although he knew Gellert had to be referencing the Elder Wand, he had no idea what the discovery would mean for the rest of the world. Not only would Grindelwald now be virtually unstoppable, but the wand could be a rallying symbol. It proved the Hallows existed and could be wielded by human hands. It proved that power was there for the taking-and Gellert was going to take it or die trying. The thought made Albus feel an emotion he’d long thought he’d forgotten: love. 

He couldn’t let Gellert die. 

For three days, Albus didn’t sleep. He drank the brandy the house-elves brought him and nibbled at bread throughout the day, but for the most part, the processes required to keep alive were ignored. He spent hours on end sitting at his writing desk, staring at blank parchment and willing the words he needed to appear before him. The parchment remained resolutely blank. He didn’t know how to convey the fear, the need, and the love that refused to leave his heart. 

Sixteen years, countless deaths, months of silence at a time, and still Albus could not forget. 

After seventy-two hours of trying everything and producing nothing, Albus swallowed his pride and did something he knew he would later regret; he went down to the Hog’s Head. The pub was relatively full, considering it was two nights until Christmas. Albus took a seat in the back, said hello to a few students who were spending their winter holidays at the castle, and kept mostly to himself until closing. For his part, Aberforth handed him a bottle of Goblin Brandy without any words and ignored him until the last guest was gone. 

“I thought I wasn’t seeing you until tomorrow?” Aberforth asked, using his wand to charm the alcohol cabinets shut. Albus had promised to play Saint Nicholas in the morning for little Caoime, who was five years old and just as clever as her father had always been. Siobhan was the one who invited Albus to Christmas Eve Dinner, but Aberforth didn’t grumble when the invitation was extended, so Albus accepted heartily and tried not to feel too badly about everything. 

He’d been trying to do that for years, and still to no avail. 

Albus finished his fifth glass of brandy and duplicated the empty glass before pouring more for both himself and his brother. “I need your advice,” Albus said, drunk enough at that point to swallow a bit of his pride. “I’ve received a letter from an old acquaintance-” Albus had learned early not to mention Gellert’s name around his brother. It always caused the younger Dumbledore to break things, and Albus really didn’t feel like cleaning up the pub that night. “-Ab, he’s found the Elder Wand.” 

Obviously, sidestepping Gellert’s name didn’t insure Aberforth’s composure. The glass in his hand shattered into tiny pieces, some of which became lodged deep in Aberforth’s hand. Albus barely batted an eyelash as he went about dislodging the shards, repairing the glass, and cleaning the table of his brother’s blood. He performed the charms with an ease that had to be practiced, and Aberforth wondered if his brother realized just how dangerous all of his research really was. 

“You have to kill him,” the cruelty and finality in Aberforth’s voice were both unmistakable. But something inside of Albus assured him that neither was caused by his younger brother’s lust for revenge. This assurance was confirmed when Aberforth said, “Albus, he’ll not stop at anythin’ now. He’ll conquer the world and make us all slaves. And you…Albus, we both know he’s the only one who can completely destroy you.” 

Albus reflexively shook his head. He’d been denying that for sixteen years. But when he brought his eyes up to meet his brother’s hard gaze, he knew he couldn’t refute what Aberforth had just said. He stared at his brother in silence, and for a moment there was nothing but the sound of the goats outside. Then Aberforth stood up and said, “Maybe, just maybe, you can destroy him.” 

Albus wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to find out. 

  


_January 5, 1925_

  


Aberforth always enjoyed funerals. When he thought of it like that, it sounded cryptic and macabre. He didn’t enjoy the death or the grief or the insinuation that hung above the grave, screaming at all the mourners: “One day, I will come for thee!” But the silence, the memories, the innate nostalgia that lingered amongst the crowd even if the person was not very well known-he enjoyed the feeling of melancholy. 

It was a rainy day in January when the funeral for Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black was held. He had been headmaster when Aberforth attended Hogwarts, so the barkeep left his establishment in the hands of his barmaid-a sixteen year old girl by the name of Meredith Ogden-and walked up the path to Hogwarts. Unsurprisingly, his brother was one of the first to arrive, and had kept a seat empty for Aberforth-“Just in case.” 

Just in case his arse. Albus knew Aberforth would show, because there wasn’t a funeral the younger Dumbledore had heard about that he hadn’t attended. For all his disgust concerning the Deathly Hallows, Aberforth’s infatuation with death was a strong one. Maybe it was hereditary. Maybe it was an obvious side effect of their father killing three muggle boys. Maybe it was the result of losing their mother and their sister within four months of each other. 

Maybe there was just something so fascinating with Death that anyone with half a brain was drawn to it. 

“Was it quick?” Aberforth leaned towards his brother and whispered the words against Albus’ auburn beard. It had grown long in the years of research, and Albus hadn’t cut it, even upon taking up the post of Transfiguration professor. Aberforth preferred his hair short, and Siobhan seemed to agree with his taste, so the Dumbledore brothers were beginning to look more and more dissimilar as time passed. Not that Aberforth minded, sometimes it was stifling, living in his brother’s shadow with no claim on the world of his own. 

“Headmaster Black was killed by an Inferi attack near his family home. His family was able to escape.” The tone of Albus’ voice suggested there was more. For one thing, why in the name of Salazar Slytherin was someone sending Inferi to attack the Headmaster of Hogwarts? For another, why wasn’t such news headlining the _Daily Prophet?_ Professor Black’s name had crept into the paper around page eight, but there had been no reason given for his early death. It wasn’t as though a random murder was something the Ministry often covered up. They usually only lied when they were terrified, and that hadn’t happened since the last Dark Lord rising, back when he and Albus were kids. 

“Bloody fuck,” Aberforth whispered, when it finally clicked, “He did this.” 

There was no need to explain who He was. There was no need for Albus to confirm the statement. There was only an eerie silence that fell between the two brothers as the eulogy began. Gellert had found another victim, someone close enough to Albus where he could feel their death weighing on his conscience. Aberforth didn’t take his eyes off of his brother throughout the entire service. 

When it was over, and they were standing in line to pay their respects, Aberforth whispered, “Does anyone else understand?” 

Albus answered in the negative. “No one else would know what to look for. No one else has been tracking his movements through Eastern Europe for twenty-six years. No one else…”

“Knows him like you do,” Aberforth finished, his eyes vacant. “What are you going to do Albus?” 

His older brother didn’t even hesitate. “Duel him to the death.” He contemplated the words for a moment. Then added, “And win.” 

  


_March 18, 1932_

  


In retrospect, Albus’ simple plan needed much more consideration than he was willing to put in to it. How, exactly, does one plan the murder of their soul mate? When Albus asked his younger brother that question, Aberforth had rolled his eyes and told Albus not to be “so bloody melodramatic.” Albus was so impressed by the addition to Aberforth’s vocabulary that he hadn’t thought to argue the point. 

He was in the middle of class one day when he Headmaster Dippet came rushing in, not even bothering to wait for Albus to finish his sentence. “Professor Dumbledore,” the smaller man said, his words having to rush together in order to catch up with him, “Can I have a minute?” Albus, unsure of whether he should leave Slytherin and Gryffindor fifth years unattended, looked hesitant. But the headmaster looked genuinely shaken to the core, so he told his class to wait there patiently, threw one of his more threatening looks around the room, and left with Dippet. 

“What is it, Headmaster?” Albus asked, never one to use informal names when there was a crisis afoot. Fearing the worst, he asked, “Is it one of the students?”

“Heavens, me, no!” Dippet exclaimed, his vernacular denoting his muggle upbringing. “No, nothing like that. It’s…well…dragons.” There was a hint of reverence as he said the word, and Albus wanted to shake the older man and force him to explain. Dragons where? Dragons how? In what capacity were dragons affecting the world enough that the Headmaster of Hogwarts looked simultaneously terrified and thunderstruck? Dippet, who quickly regained his composure, continued. “In Ilfracombe. There was a dragon attack.” 

Dippet took a deep breath, and Albus interjected, “The nearest reserve to Ilfracombe is a hundred and seventy kilometers away. What was the dragon doing anywhere near there?”

“From what we can tell, he was sent there, Albus.” 

The words themselves didn’t reveal anything. Dippet did not know of Albus’ past relations with a German wizard hell-bent on taking over the world. The headmaster was aware of Gellert’s existence, of course. With both Durmstrang and Beauxbatons firmly under the “evil wizard’s” control, French, German, and Slavic students were pouring in left and right, claiming relation to whatever English wizard they could find. Albus couldn’t remember the last time Hogwarts was filled to capacity, but he almost tripped over a second year just that morning, and the student had apologized in Bulgarian-one of the few languages Albus hadn’t mastered the translation charm for yet. 

The fear that made Dippet’s voice catch on “tell” and scrape against the rest of the words revealed everything. “Has Grindelwald come to England then?” It was hard to refer to Gellert by his last name, but Albus knew that he had to distance himself from the dark wizard in order to prove his loyalty to England. Aberforth still referred to the German as Gellert, unwilling to deny what had taken place between the three of them. It made Albus angry, but he was slowly learning to swallow his heart when his brother spoke, so as to keep it from beating too loudly when it was lodged in his throat. 

“Yes, it appears that way,” Dippet was about to say more when a portrait behind Albus started talking. 

“Professor Dippet,” the witch in the painting interrupted, “I have a bit of news from the Ministry.” The witch was Ignatia Wildsmith, the inventor of floo-powder. Albus had written a paper on her for History of Magic in his fourth year. Since his interview with her for that essay, she had grown quite fond of him, and was often found in his picture of her in his drawing room, relaying fascinating gossip from the Ministry. 

Dippet looked at her, “Is it good news?” he ventured, sounding quite certain is was not. 

“Yes,” she reassured him. “Minister Pilliwickle would like me to inform you that the dragon has been detained and the muggles have been obliviated.” She smiled warmly at him before saying, “Is there anything you would like for me to tell the Minister?” 

Dippet let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for centuries. “No, no, dear Lady Wildsmith. I believe I shall send him an owl instead.” The woman curtsied and then walked out of her frame, most likely to return to the Ministry, where all the action was. 

Albus returned to his class and forced himself to push through the lessons. Just because Gellert was back in Great Britain, it didn’t mean life had to stop or the world had to end. Things wouldn’t get bad until and unless Gellert let them, and Albus had to believe that the German wizard would bide his time. Gellert was never one to do anything in haste, taking over the last stronghold of freedom in all of wizarding Europe was going to take time and patience. 

When he collapsed in front of his fire that night, he was not expecting a letter from Tilly Toke, who had made it to the front page of the _Evening Prophet._ Tilly had always been one of his favorite students, and she was one of the few witches in the history of Hogwarts to receive Os in both Transfiguration and Charms. If anyone had been capable of casting a memory charm large enough to mislead an entire city filled with muggles, it was Miss. Toke. He read her letter with a smile on his lips, although it was much too timid to try and reach his eyes. When he got to the last paragraph, the smile disappeared completely. 

_**The Ministry informed me that the dragon belonged to Grindelwald. Professor, I want you to know that if you need any help defeating this villain, me and mine will be there in a moment. Please, do not hesitate to write to me or visit the institute at any time.**_

So that was it then, he would have to start an alliance. The people of Britain would not sit down and let Gellert take over their country without a fight. He took a deep breath, tried to clear his mind, and then pulled out a quill and a clean sheet of parchment. 

**_Dear Miss Toke,_** he wrote, trying not to focus on how much the betrayal was killing him, _**I would like to invite you to join me in a defensive alliance against Gellert Grindelwald. The alliance, which will be made up of only the strongest witches and wizards of Wizarding Britain, will be named**_ The Order of Arthur _in retaliation for this Saxon foe who is currently bombarding our Welsh shores…_

He spent most of the night writing that letter, and when he sent the letter off around three the following morning, he knew he was sending a piece of his soul with it. 

Instead of going to bed, he pulled out another piece of parchment. This letter was considerably shorter than the one he sent to Miss Toke, but it hurt all the more for its brevity. 

_**Dear Ab,** _

_**You were right. He cannot be redeemed. I have decided to lead the fight against him.** _

_**Will you join me?** _

_**Yours,  
Wulf** _

Albus did not wait for his own owl to return to send the letter. Instead, he walked up to the Owlery and tied it to the first, unidentifiable owl he could find. Aberforth wouldn’t write back to him, of that he was sure, but the last thing he needed was someone realizing that he and Gellert had a connection forged almost forty years before. 

As the second owl of the morning flew off towards Hogsmeade, Albus wondered what, exactly, the morning light would bring. 

  


_August 19, 1945_

  


For thirteen years, Albus did almost nothing but teach and fight, and there were times when he didn’t even teach. Headmaster Dippet never complained of his Transfiguration professor’s constant absences, as there were more than enough Order members willing to take their leader’s place in the classroom while he was off gallivanting through Germany, France, and parts of the Kingdom that no one else wanted to visit. For thirteen years, Albus chased a man he had never been able to catch, waiting for the opportune moment to pounce on his prey and destroy his power’s greatest adversary-love.

And now it was over. A single duel that seemed to have encompassed the entirety of their relationship, too many archaic hexes neither man should have known, and one moment when Albus would have given up everything to let Gellert win-that was how the war had ended. Of course, to those who had been watching, it was a battle of epic proportions, with Albus the obvious underdog, as anyone in a duel with the Elder Wand could not expect to win.

He was sitting near a thestral. Fourteen years ago, he would have blamed Ariana’s death for his ability to see the animal he was leaning against. Now, he knew he had witnessed far too much death to blame anyone for his sight. The thestrals were used by Grindelwald’s forces as transportation, as they were almost untraceable and very skilled at flight. The equine animal was bleeding from his leg, and Albus picked up the Elder Wand to heal it, knowing that even that wand’s magic would do nothing for his own cuts and bruises. 

The battle had ended two hours ago, and for the most part, the scene was clear. Mediwitches and Aurors were still roaming the immediate area, looking for people still breathing on either side-one side to be healed, the other to be imprisoned. Albus did not have to try to ignore what was going on around him. His thoughts were focused only on the man he had just defeated, and a castle much too macabre to be considered merely a prison. 

“Hell,” Gellert had whispered once, when they had met on a battlefield in 1937. Albus hadn’t challenged his rival then, knowing that he was not yet ready. Instead, he had asked Gellert about the man’s newest creation-a castle built with hate as its bricks and fear as its mortar. “It is what the muggles call Hell, created to torment a man in such sadistic ways, not even the Dementors at Azkaban can fully understand its methods.” His accent was still as thick as Albus had remembered it, and even though the basis of Nuremgard was sickening, he could feel desire pooling as Gellert’s eyes shone with pride. Later that night, when they had finished making love and Albus was preparing to go back to his side of the battlefield, Gellert had given him a phoenix. 

“His name is Fawkes,” Gellert had whispered against his lover’s skin, “Like your Guy.” Albus had always been fascinated by the muggle-born wizard Guy Fawkes, who had led a rebellion against the English Parliament back in the sixteen hundreds. Albus didn’t bother to ask Gellert why the other man was willing to give him such a generous gift, especially when they were supposed to be killing one another. Gellert shrugged when he met Albus’ eyes, and smiled the carless smile Albus had fallen in love with. 

“I think, perhaps, you could love him,” Gellert had explained. In that moment, Albus knew his lover’s belief would be true. He took the bird and left the house, not looking back despite the desperate need to turn and see Gellert one more time. The war they were fighting was more than what happened on the battlefield, it was a contest between head and heart. Although Albus knew logic had to win, he couldn’t help but root for love. 

Unfortunately, he may have been victorious the fight against the Elder Wand, but that didn’t mean the heart stood a chance at winning.

Two hours ago, Albus had knocked Gellert unconscious. One hour and fifty three minutes ago, Albus had loaded Gellert onto a carriage led by three thestrals and guarded by thirty seven hitwizards-the entirety of what remained of the British squadron. One hour and forty seven minutes ago, he had exited the carriage, after whispering words no one in the world would ever remember-except for him. For the last hour and a half, Albus had waited in silence for news that Gellert was safely transported into the dark tower that was Nurmengard. Ten minutes ago, the head of the Auror department came up to Albus to confirm Gellert’s arrival in the tower. Now Gellert would be imprisoned there for what remained of his lifetime. The image of the stormy sea and the words _"Für das höhere Wohl"_ would be all that remained of their long ago dream. 

It took a while for someone to approach him again, and when they did, Albus was not surprised to see that it was Aberforth who was standing over him, resentment still reflecting in his crystalline eyes. “Are you proud of yourself, Albus?” he asked. It was a sad attempt at mockery that both knew the older brother did not deserve. Albus had done what was necessary, if not what had been expected. “You sacrificed thousands of witches and wizards to get to him-and then you let the bloody bastard live.” The attempt at mockery had failed, but the hatred was evident. Albus wasn’t sure if Aberforth was ever going to forgive him. 

Albus didn’t say anything. His mouth was dry and his head was heavy, and the effort required to duel his brother with words would be greater than what had been required to duel his lover with magic. At least with the magic, he knew he could control what happened. At least with his wand, he knew the words Gellert said would not destroy him. 

“How dare you?” Aberforth asked, after a moment of silence, “All those people who paved his way to hell-how dare you not avenge them?” Now that Aberforth had started, Albus knew nothing would calm his brother down. “They fought for you, Albus. They died for you, you maniacal, manipulative son of a bitch. How dare you betray them like this?” The words were not loud enough for those that remained to hear them. Aberforth knew better than to yell such words openly. Faith, he knew, was a powerful thing, and once destroyed, it could not be unbroken. 

“Merlin, your lies and your secrets. Do you not realize people have died for them? Siobhan and Caoime are dead! All because you were too ashamed to admit to your sins. Albus would you bloody look at me?” the last sentence fell together like crumbling bricks chasing each other from an unsafe building. Albus forced his attention away from the wand, now clutched in his hand like a last souvenir. He met Aberforth’s eyes and tried not to flinch away from the disgust he found there. “How are you going to live with yourself after this?” It was a plea more than a question, and Albus had a feeling his brother wasn’t sure what the end of this war meant for either of them. 

Albus forced the words from his lips with a finality he wasn’t sure existed in life-but he knew existed in death. “I have defeated a man who sought to control death,” he said, his eyes glued to his brother, “Life, I feel, is for those who have something worth living for. I will merely dwell here until I have no more reason to remain.” 

Aberforth wrenched his eyes away from the death refracted by Albus’ broken spectacles and allowed his gaze to focus on the wounded. “And what of those who wish to live?”

“You’ll have to find a reason, Aberforth. Mine is currently locked behind walls of his own making.”

 

  


_September 1, 1956_

  


For eleven years, Albus worked behind the walls of Hogwarts, forcing himself to focus only on his job and not on the man who wrote to him once a week asking what life was like, now that he was residing in the City of Sin. Albus, who had no interest in being the wizarding world’s Jesus and spending time conversing with the devil, allowed each letter to go unanswered-even if they never went unread. Piles of the letters had built up over the years, kept in a trunk no one dared to open, not that anyone could have if they tried. Albus kept time by the arrival of the letters, as a part of him knew Gellert would never stop writing. 

On the last day of classes in June of 1956, Headmaster Dippet announced his retirement. He was old enough then, to hand over the reins to someone else. After serving as headmaster through a war and its aftermath, he had earned his place among Hogwarts’ greatest heads, despite his sheepish personality and his humble beginnings. His work with the Elixir of Life was little known, but with an age of over three hundred, Albus found it strange that no one wanted to question Dippet’s apparent immortality. 

The obvious successor to the Headmaster position was Albus, and he was offered the job without delay. Together, he and Dippet spent the summer working on the transition. There were parts of Hogwarts Albus didn’t know existed until that summer, and some-such as Rowena Ravenclaw’s roof-top garden, where he spent much of his later life speculating about the things he’d done and the world to come. By September first, Albus knew he was ready to take over leadership of the school, even if Aberforth still had his reservations. 

“They’re giving you control of children, Albus?” he asked, his voice hanging in the early morning fog. The two brothers were taking a walk around the Black Lake. “Will you neglect them, as you did Ariana and me? Or is that special treatment reserved for family only?” It was an old argument by then, one that Aberforth had hashed and rehashed over the three months since Dippet’s announcement. But every time Aberforth asked the question, Albus had to fight the desire to drag the Elder Wand across his brother’s neck and let the magic inside of him do the rest. 

“I didn’t neglect you, Aberforth,” but even as he said the words, he knew they were lies. He had turned his back on his siblings when they had needed him desperately, all for a beautiful blond boy who wanted to rule the world. And what had he to show for it? A dead sister, an imprisoned lover, a broken heart, and a brother who often chose not to speak to him. So much for his sacrifice. 

Aberforth stopped walking and turned to him, his face a deep, ruddy red. Over the years, they had grown to look less and less alike. The grief that had etched its signature into both of their faces and the blue eyes that refracted the pond behind their house in Godric’s Hallow were the only proof that they were brothers. Aberforth was still an explosive, cunning man with passion that bled from his every pore. Albus, on the other hand, was cold and calculating in ways that made his brother claim the older Dumbledore did not have a heart. In his weaker moments, Albus believed him. In his weaker moments, Albus believed that he didn’t need love, as long as he had the power of the Elder Wand. 

But then he would look at the trunk at the foot of the bed, or the picture of him and Aberforth taken even before Gellert had broken what once was between them, and he knew that love would always be more important than anything. 

“You abandoned us,” he shouted into the silence, “You abandoned me and Ari, all for a crazy boy who built castles in the sky. What’s going to stop you from abandoning them?”

Albus didn’t need to turn to face his brother for Aberforth to feel his brother’s eyes upon him. “That’s easy,” Albus argued, “I can promise you that I will not abandon them, simply because there will never again be a man like Gellert Grindelwald to take me from them.”

To this day, Aberforth will argue that his brother should have been expecting the punch to the jaw, but then, Albus always did have a habit of underestimating him. 

  


_August 20, 1967_

  


In all honesty, Albus could give anyone a list a hundred feet long as to why he should have hired Tom Riddle as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. What were his reasons for not hiring the young man that so many people claimed was promising? There were two: the first was his gut feeling that there was something quite wrong with the man; the second was his brother’s gut feeling that there was something “fucked in the head with that one.” He wasn’t ambitious and wild like Gellert had been. Tom Riddle Jr. was sadistic, a genius, and maybe-just maybe-capable of sins Gellert never would have thought a human being could commit. 

When he received an owl from Aberforth in the middle of their meeting, alerting Albus of the fact that Riddle’s friends were in Hogs’ Head waiting for their leader’s return, Albus turned the job seeker down without any further argument. The moment Riddle left his office, he took the secret passage into the Hogs’ Head and stood behind the bar, waiting for those who considered themselves Riddle’s friends to leave. Once they were gone, he and Aberforth left the pub in the hands of Aberforth’s orphaned granddaughter. 

“He asked about Horcruxes again, Ab,” Albus confided to his brother as they made their way outside. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, and Albus hadn’t done anything too disgusting as of late, so Aberforth didn’t see much harm in spending the afternoon with him. He led Albus to the barn and set about getting a goat ready for sheering. Albus knew that he would have to hold said goat while the job was done. If there was one thing Albus had learned over the years, it was goats do not like to be groomed using magic. “I don’t know what it means, but it has to mean something.” 

“He reminds me of you,” Aberforth admitted, “The ambition, the genius, the look in his eye when he’s trying to manipulate you into giving your soul to him. I felt like I was talking to you when I spoke with him. It was…” he stopped looking for a brush long enough to look for the word, “disturbing.”

The comparison bothered Albus slightly at that moment, but it would grow haunt him maliciously for the rest of his life. He knew that Voldemort was a reflection of what he could have been-had he given in to Gellert’s seduction. The world could not have handled a wizard as dark as Albus was capable of being, and so he knew, in the moment Aberforth said those words, that Ariana’s death had served a purpose. It wasn’t much of a comfort. 

“He’s not quite as idealistic as I was,” Albus stated, clinging to that bit of defense he knew wouldn’t protect him. “He seems to want power simply for the sake of it.” 

Aberforth snorted. “And why, dear brother, do you want it?” 

Albus didn’t have to think of the answer, it was automatic. “For the Greater Good.” 

He left with those parting words and made his way back up to the castle. Aberforth did not look up from his shearing to watch his brother leave. Outside the door of the Great Hall, Minerva McGonagall, who Albus had recently tempted away from the Ministry in order to take up the post he was leaving, stood waiting for him. “Honestly, Albus, you should really be here while the elves prepare for the board meeting. They’ve asked me a million questions and I’m not sure how to answer half of them.” 

Albus patted her hand and smiled. “I’m sure you and Professor Kettleborn have done quite well, Minerva,” he comforted, “But I shall go check on the preparations.” Minerva greeted those words with a smile, and Albus forced his eyes to shine as he followed her into the Great Hall. For the following ten hours, he did nothing but plan and preach-about the goodness of magic, the horrors of wizardry, and-of course-the Greater Good. 

The meeting took three hours to finish. He didn’t pay attention to half of it, and a part of him was very grateful that night for the pensieve his brother had purchased for his birthday last year. It was an irreplaceable gift paid for when Aberforth was in one of his better moods, and Albus couldn’t help but treasure it as though it were gold. He emptied the memory into the bowl with ease, and then went about getting ready for bed. 

For hours, he laid there without sleeping. The minutes ticked themselves to death in the pocket watch that laid opened on his bedside. It had been a present from Gellert, almost seventy years ago, for a birthday Albus could remember perfectly. He never let the pocket watch out of his sight, as it was engraved with the sign for the hallows with a love he knew he would never find again. It was the only thing from the summer he had kept, and he had a slight feeling that parting with it would destroy him. 

Unable to sleep, and knowing that at least part of the reason was his preoccupation with Gellert, Albus rose from the bed. He walked over to his desk and picked up a pen to write a letter he knew he really shouldn’t send. Only three words bled black against the papyrus, but they were permanent. 

_**I love you.** _

He attached the parchment to the foot of Gellert’s phoenix, because he still couldn’t bring himself to think of Fawkes as his. “Nurmengard,” he told the bird, who seemed to understand him. Albus watched as the red feathers disappeared into the night, and wondered if maybe the letter would have served a better purpose had he decided to burn it. 

 

  


_December 23, 1975_

  


“It’s been three weeks, Professor,” Fabian said, because old habits die hard, and he’d never get used to calling Albus anything other than what he always had. “You haven’t heard anything from him?” The hope in the man’s voice is heart wrenching, and if Albus still had a heart, he would most certainly feel bad. 

Instead, the older man simply shook his head. They were alone at Headquarters that night, as most people had gone home for Christmas. Fabian was leaving as soon as Dorcas Meadowes could arrive, as Molly would absolutely hate them both if he didn’t at least attend Christmas Eve dinner the following night. 

After their location in Wales had been found out, the Order of the Phoenix had to move their headquarters to the Vance’s summer house. As Emmeline Vance was a spy for the Order within Voldemort’s ranks, the house she had inherited from her father was safe. As an extra precaution, Albus had asked his Charms professor, Filius Flitwick, who had served in the war against Gellert with him, to be the Secret Keeper. Three years had passed, and still they remained in the Vances’ summer residence. 

“I just…there’s no way he defected, is there?” the words sounded like high treason coming from Fabian’s lips. Both man allowed the damnation hang in the air for a moment, and then Albus felt his arm raise the Elder Wand before he even realized there was a hex waiting at the wand’s tip. 

“Don’t you ever,” Albus began, his voice strong even though his hand was trembling, “Ever hope that he has defected. Caradoc Dearborn was a true man who would have died rather than betray our cause. The last thing you want is to find out your lover is evil!” 

They never spoke about it. Albus preferred to stay out of the love lives of the Order members. Besides, a homosexual relationship may have been acceptable in muggle Britain in 1975, when everyone was so caught up in love that they didn’t care how you expressed it. But in the Wizarding World, sodomy was sodomy, and it was frowned upon, if not a crime, in most regions of their country. Once upon a time, Albus had contemplated coming out as a homosexual. But then he thought of the wars yet to win, and he knew he could not let his sexuality define him. 

Fabian, on the other hand, was much more open. People looked at the ginger wizard with his long hair and his dark eyeliner and simply knew that he was attracted to other men. It was a good thing, really, because it meant Fabian could seduce various Death Eaters and slip Veritaserum into their drinks before anyone knew what was happening. Albus had exploited Fabian’s flamboyancy more than once in the missions he gave to the twins, and maybe it made him feel guilty, but he would never admit to that. 

Fabian looked at him, partially in wonder but mostly in disgust. “It’s true, then?” he asked, his gaze steady on his leader’s war-wearied face. “All that batshite about you and Gellert Grindelwald-all the gossip and rumors that fly about in Hogwarts like bloody piskies-all of that is true?” Albus couldn’t bring himself to meet Fabian’s eyes, but he could feel himself falling from a pedestal nonetheless. 

“Everyone falls in love, Fabian Prewett,” he reminded the younger man, his hand moving from the wand holster to grasp the pocket watch in his left breast pocket. “Sometimes it is with the right woman and sometimes it is with the wrong man. I do not regret that summer in Godric’s Hallow-when everything was before us and we seemed invincible. I do not regret giving my heart to what everyone claims was a heartless man. I only regret the way it ended, and I’m still not quite certain I do not regret that it ended.” It was the most truth anyone had ever gotten out of him, and Albus had the decency to flush red as he finished the last word. 

Fabian didn’t say anything, and for a moment, the silence was almost deafening. Then, Albus broke through the ringing in his ears and said, “Here, I want you to have this.” From his outstretched hand, a golden pocket watch was revealed, its German origins evident by the design on the front. “To keep the time until you see Mr. Dearborn again.” He looked towards the front of the house, where Aberforth was standing, waiting for the moment to be over before he barged in. “I, alas, have no more need of it.” 

He dropped the watch into Fabian’s hands and then made his way towards Aberforth. The two brothers shook hands. “It’s not a surrender,” Albus whispered, his lips lost in his brother’s beard, “I’m still not giving up on him.” 

Aberforth shook his head. “You already have, brother,” he replied, “The day you locked him in a prison you knew he could never leave. And for your surrender, I think you’ve finally been redeemed.” 

It wasn’t a declaration of filial love, and it wasn’t the forgiveness Albus sought desperately. But in the seventy-six years that had passed since Albus’ gravest sin, it was the nicest thing Aberforth had ever said to him. 

  


_November 1, 1981_

  


Albus did not learn of the Potters’ deaths through the _Daily Prophet_ , which sent out a breaking news issue at six in the morning, right after Sirius Black was arrested. He did not hear the news over the wireless, which included an interview with Mundungus Fletcher, who claimed to have inside knowledge of the event. He did not hear the rumors that flew around the Leaky Cauldron like gubraithian fire, which spread quickly and never went out. No, Albus Dumbledore, who always knew everything, was not the first to know that Voldemort had vanished and the Potters were dead. 

Aberforth, however, might have been. 

The winds that whipped outside his bedroom window were horrible, but he barely acknowledged them as he threw a cloak about his shoulders and went out to fight against them. In the next room, he could hear his granddaughter and her lover of twenty years slightly snoring against each other’s skin. Perversion, he decided, was a part of the Dumbledore blood, and he knew better than to judge his Kendra Ann on the basis of who she slept with. Listening closely, he reassured himself that they were safe without him. Then he pushed open the door and let it close with a bang. He had a war to end. 

Aberforth walked up to the castle and banged heavily on the front door. At four in the morning, someone was bound to complain about the unwanted noise. Luckily, Peeves was floating about in the Great Hall and, unaware of Voldemort’s demise, went quickly upstairs to fetch Albus, as he feared for the children’s lives. Peeves had always been a jokester, even back when he was alive, but the seriousness of the war gave him responsibility, and he knew better than to let Albus, and Hogwarts, down. 

The door opened a few minutes later, and Albus was standing at his full height, his wand drawn in an offensive stance and his eyes alight with vigilance. Anyone who wondered where Alastor Moody found his motto had only to look as far as the Auror’s old Transfiguration professor. When Albus saw his brother looking back at him, he still did not lower his wand. 

“What actually happened with the goats?” he asked, a security question only the two of the knew the answer to. 

In any other situation, Aberforth would have smirked, punched his brother in the face without even the consideration of drawing his wand, and then pushed his way into the Hall. But this was probably the most important thing he would ever tell his brother, so he answered the question to hurry things along. “I was trying to bring Siobhan back. I needed a body to put her in. Killing a human terrified me, but a goat…that was something I could manage.” He was bloody ashamed of that fact, but his hurt pride hadn’t been enough. The media had to twist everything to make it sound like bestiality. It was bad enough his brother was a blooming pouf who used to shag a dark wizard, they didn’t need any more taboos in the family. 

“Why are you here, Aberforth?” Albus asked as he lowered his wand. He opened the door wider and ushered Aberforth into the Great Hall. Albus was tired, that much was evident. Maybe he could wear a mask around the rest of the world that painted him invincible and colored him perfect, but the slight yawn in his voice and the sadness in his eyes belied all of that. Despite everything-and there was so much that lay between the two of them-Aberforth knew that his understood his brother better than anyone in the world. 

Best to get right to it then. Aberforth took a deep breath and said, “The Potters are dead.” The words hurt to say, because he had always loved James, regardless of Albus’ adoration of Lily. James Potter was a true Gryffindor, the type of man Albus should have been. For their wedding, Aberforth had given them a portrait of his dead mother. “To contact me,” he explained, when James looked confused, “In case you ever need anything.” In the fifteen minutes that had passed since Aberforth learned of his death, he hadn’t had a chance to try this new grief on for size yet. “Mother’s portrait just told me. Apparently your favorite student is also dead…” his gruff voice faded to silence for a moment, but before Albus could interject he added, “Their boy, Harry? He lived.” 

He lived. 

It was probably the only part of the whole rant that Albus acknowledged. “Where is he now?” he rasped, unable to sound authoritative given the current events. “Harry, the boy, where is he now, Aberforth?” 

“She doesn’t know. She thinks he might still be in his crib. She can hear him crying, but she can’t see that far, and there aren’t any portraits around the crib, obviously. But Albus,” in that moment everything he had been saying finally caught up with him, “Albus, Tom Riddle is dead.” 

Albus nodded. He left the room and went in search of his trusted Order, leaving Aberforth alone with Peeves, who was celebrating with back flips, and the Bloody Baron, who looked almost relieved. Even the ghosts had feared He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and Aberforth understood then that Albus was right in believing there were things in life far worse than death. Slowly, the castle came alive. More ghosts gathered in the Great Hall, the portraits began to wake, and then the professors began to gather outside the door, none of them quite sure what was happening. No one approached him to ask. Those who knew who he was thought him deranged and those who didn’t recognize him probably thought he was a war refugee. Hogwarts, it seemed, had become home to quite a number of them. 

Aberforth, however, was unaffected by all of this. He focused on the enchanted sky above him and tried to make sense of his rambling. James Potter and Lily Evans were dead. Harry Potter, barely a year old, had defeated a homicidal bastard who seemed almost indestructible to everyone-including Albus. The most evil wizard to walk the free world in almost a century was no longer a threat. Voldemort was gone, the Dark Lord was destroyed, Tom Riddle was dead. 

Tom Riddle was dead. 

It probably should have meant more to him than it did. 

  


_June 29, 1985_

  


The End of Year Staff Party for the professors at Hogwarts was always a very interesting shindig. Since the year Albus was made Headmaster, the event was always held the Saturday after the last day of classes, so that no one who had summer plans had to be absent. Aberforth had never formally given Albus his permission to hold the party in his establishment, but then, Albus had never been the type of older brother to ask for such a thing. At first, Aberforth had been bitter about the obvious abuse of their siblinghood, but by 1985, he was used to it. 

“Did you hear, Mr. Dumbledore?” the youngest teacher, and one of the few Slytherins on staff, questioned. Aberforth remembered throwing Severus Snape out of the pub once, for spying on his brother. But six years had passed since then, and while some people were worth holding a grudge about, Snape had never been anything but courteous to the older man since then. So Aberforth pretended to look interested. Apparently, that was all the prompting the teacher needed. “Slytherin’s won the Cup!” It wasn’t really said with excitement, and, honestly, Aberforth wasn’t entirely sure Snape was capable of excitement, but there was an undertone of victory in the young man’s voice, and Aberforth couldn’t help but let his face crack into a grin. 

“So we’ve finally taken the Cup back from him, then?” he asked, motioning to his brother, who had just entered through the front door. Snape nodded his head and shook Aberforth’s congratulatory hand when he offered it, but the barkeep knew he would have to find someone else to celebrate with. Luckily, Septima Vector had just walked in, with a smile that painted her face a brilliant shade of happy. 

“Gryffindor’s lost!” she proclaimed, her eyes alight with merriment. Aberforth wouldn’t have been surprised to know that Tima, who was a good friend of his granddaughter’s, had already had a few glasses of wine before making her way down to Hogsmeade. “Oh I know it would be brilliant if my Ravenclaws would win, but honestly, I’m just glad to see the Hall wasn’t decked out in red again!”

Aberforth smiled at her and offered a “congratulations” along with her drink. Septima took a seat in the back, at a table filled with the teachers around her own age-Pomona, who had been in her year at Hogwarts, and Aurora, who had not, but who was smart and Slytherin enough to keep up with the other two women, who were ten years her senior. Albus then made his way to the bar and sat down on one of the stools in front of it. “You look as though you want to celebrate with them,” he commented, not bothering with a greeting. “Surely you don’t still cling to the Hogwarts’ prejudices.”

“Show me a witch or wizard in all of England who doesn’t,” Aberforth replied, setting two shots of whiskey down on the counter between them. “Minnie doesn’t look too happy about her Gryffindors losing, Albus.” He gestured to Minerva, who was sitting off to the side with Flitwick and Hooch. Hooch, who was the third and last Slytherin on staff, seemed to be gloating. It was a misconception, Aberforth knew, that only Gryffindors knew how to do that. 

“Yes well,” Albus rebuffed, “It’s about time another House wins. Hopefully next year it’ll be Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. I’m sure dear Pomona would like to have at least one win under her belt before this century ends.” 

Aberforth let the topic drop, because there was no point in trying to bait Albus anymore. After a century together, the two men rarely argued. There was simply the deep resentment that stood between them like a brick wall with no exit. It wasn’t worth a fight, even Aberforth, with all of his hot-headedness, knew that. “I’m going to celebrate with the other Slytherins,” he decided. Albus didn’t stop him, and for the next five hours, the brothers did not speak again. 

Once most of the professors had taken their leaves of the pub, Aberforth found his brother near the fireplace, reading a letter that reeked of broken promises and good plans gone bad. He didn’t have to ask to know who the parchment was from. “What’s he got to say now?” he asked instead, taking the seat opposite of Albus. He knew that by this point in their lives he really shouldn’t care, but he couldn’t seem to help it. Gellert Grindelwald had always fascinated him, something he would never admit. 

Albus, who knew everything, was nonetheless aware of this. “He asked about Quidditch,” he began. The random chats about Gellert were a form of catharsis for both of them. Albus was able to tell someone who understood about his love for the man, and Aberforth was able to renew his hatred for all three of them. “He sent me his next move in our never ending game of Wizard’s chess. There’s a new cook at the prison, and he likes her much more than he did the last one. He asked for some new books, as he’s read all the ones I last sent. He…” Albus paused, and looked at his brother for a moment, “asked about your goats. And about Kendra Ann. And he wanted to know whether or not we were able to pin anything on Malfoy yet.” 

“So nothing extraordinary,” Aberforth summed up. “Tell him my goats are fine, though if I had any way of reaching him I’d tell him I’d like to shove one of them up his arse and use another’s horns to maul his eyes out. Is that too violent for your tastes?” the hatred was omnipresent in the room, and Albus almost regretted saying anything. But he didn’t know how to keep quiet when talk turned to Gellert, and he sincerely doubted he would ever learn that particular skill. “And Kendra’s alive and well, unlike both of her namesakes, thanks to him.”

“He didn’t kill Mother,” Albus defended. 

Aberforth shook his head, “You make it sound like I should forgive him.” 

“Don’t you think enough time has passed? I lost my sister too, Aberforth, and I’ve forgiven him.” He knew that declaration would damn him, the moment he said the words, but he also knew it was too late to take them back. 

“You’ve done what?” Aberforth asked. “He killed my sister, he has my wife’s and my daughter’s deaths on his hands. It’s been less than fifty years. And you’ve forgiven him?” Aberforth reached for his wand, and Albus knew that if he didn’t leave quickly, a duel would commence. 

So, without another word, Albus left. And for the next ten years, Aberforth refused to say a single word to him. 

  


_June 30, 1995_

  


Their silence ended the day Voldemort returned from the dead. Not that either brother had ever really thought Tom Riddle was gone for good. Dark Wizards are never defeated by a baby in a crib, regardless of what a mother might say to her children when they complain of kappas in the closet and boggarts under the bed. Albus watched his school mourn a death they were not ready to accept, and Aberforth stared on in anger as his brother said nothing to defend himself from the reporters who asked ridiculous questions and pinned the Hufflepuff’s death on him. Sometimes, Albus’ self-imposed martyrdom was too ridiculous for Aberforth to accept-even if the git did deserve it. 

The first words Aberforth said to his brother after a decade of silence were, “What next?” the question had no context, but then, it was pretty obvious what Aberforth was asking. He knew that the peace both brothers had fought so hard for was ruined, and he knew that somehow he would be roped in to fixing it. Whenever Albus had to save the world, Aberforth was somehow manipulated into following his big brother to the battlefield, despite his obvious willingness to hide in the Hogs Head and be as neutral as were the goats in his barn. 

Albus’ first words to Aberforth were a bit more poetic: “The world has a funny way of making you understand when it is too late for you to do much about it. Truth has been born from time, and I think we have a chance, but hope is a fragile thing, and one misstep can ruin everything.” 

Being cryptic had always been one of Albus’ more obnoxious talents-right up there with flying sans broom or griffin. 

“Care to be a bit more specific, Albus?” Aberforth asked, looking out at the Black Lake. The funeral for Cedric Diggory had taken place a few days ago, and it was one of the worst funerals he had ever attended. Children during the First War had seemed almost immune to death, considering how constant it had been in their lives. But these kids, they’d never seen a classmate perish before their eyes. He could feel the disillusionment that stabbed into their hearts as the eulogy was said, and he was reminded of his first wave of grief, the moment he found out his mother was dead. 

Albus looked at him as though he were only just noticing Aberforth’s existence. “We must start up the Order again,” he decided. “I’ll write Elphias and Remus right away. They’ll get into contact with most of them. Could you call Miss Vance? She’s always loved you the best.”

“Albus!” Aberforth grunted, “That wasn’t what I meant.” 

“No?” Albus asked, as though he couldn’t think of anything else Aberforth could be asking. 

Aberforth let out a sigh and said, “No. I meant…I meant what’s going to happen to the world?” Maybe it wasn’t a succinct question, and maybe there wasn’t an answer to be had, but Aberforth knew he had to at least ask. 

Albus thought for a moment, his blue eyes clouding with age and what could have been considered fear in a lesser man. “The world’s going to remember that there are those who wish to conquer death. And those who should be feared are the ones who actually stand a chance.” 

“Does Riddle stand a chance?” it was a question they both knew did not need to be asked. 

But Albus answered anyway, with finality stronger than the ground they were standing on. “Yes. As far as chances go, I’d say he has the best.” 

  


_June 22, 1997_

  


“Snape was just in here,” Aberforth stated as Albus walked through the entrance of the Hogs’ Head. It was the last Sunday before the end of term, and most of the students were milling about outside. A few seventh years were drinking in the back of the pub, near the fireplace, but beyond that, the establishment was mostly empty. “He’s quite angry with you, I hope you know.” 

“As he well should be, I suppose,” Albus said. Turning away from his brother he said, “Good afternoon, Kendra dear.” The witch behind the bar smiled at him, but didn’t say anything. She was busy taking inventory, as was most likely afraid of losing count if she opened her mouth to say something to the Great-Uncle Albus. “Kendra, would you mind if I stole your grandfather away for a moment?” Kendra shook her head, sending her black curls bouncing across her face. In the rare moments when Albus really looked at his niece, he was struck by how very much she looked like his mother. Aberforth had been right in choosing that name for her, but then, Aberforth was right in most things. 

The two brothers made their way upstairs, with Albus placing protective charms behind them with every step. By the time they reached the door of Aberforth’s bedroom, both brothers were completely paranoid. “What the bloody hell is going on?” Aberforth asked, the moment they entered the room. Albus cast two more spells before he motioned to the bed. Knowing that Albus wouldn’t ask him to take a seat unless it was necessary, the younger brother sat down. 

“I have asked Severus Snape to kill me,” Albus announced, his voice low and his eyes vigilant. “He informed me this morning that there will be an attack on Hogwarts in the coming weeks. It is at this time that he will make good on this promise.” 

Aberforth could hear words coming from Albus’ mouth, but he couldn’t get passed the first sentence. _I have asked Severus Snape to kill me_ -like he was talking about the weather, or the latest Quidditch scores, or whatever pair of socks Minerva was planning on knitting for him for his birthday. It was probably the most surreal thing he had ever heard, and living with Albus for more than a century, he had been under the impression that he had witnessed everything that was possible for one man to witness. Apparently, this was Albus Dumbledore proving expectations wrong-yet again. 

“I’m sorry,” Aberforth said, when he could find his voice again, “In what fucked up parallel universe in any of what you just said supposed to make sense?”

Albus didn’t seem shocked by the way Aberforth gasped out the words. “It isn’t, but it is the truth, regardless. You once told me that Riddle and I were much too similar for your liking. At first the thought deeply disturbed me, but I’ve learned to use it to my advantage. He’s not quite as intelligent as he’d like us all to believe, and I’ve begun to find his movements almost as predictable as they are malicious.”

When Aberforth said nothing, Albus continued. He moved into the light to give his brother a better view of his poisoned arm, which was now almost black, with veins visibly twisting around themselves like the ivy that crawled up Hogwarts’ walls. “I am dying, Aberforth,” he explained, wincing when the arm came into contact with the table he was standing next to. The skin was flaying and every sensation felt like a hex to the stomach. “Whether Snape performs his duty or he doesn’t, I will not make it to my next birthday, of this I am certain.” 

Aberforth wanted to argue. He wanted to point out that Albus had predicted his own death before, and he had been wrong then. But the finality of his brother’s words weighed heavy on Aberforth’s shoulders, and he could feel their oppressive truth smothering him. “I feel like I should say some words of hope, but I don’t know which one of us needs the comfort more.” 

“Death is not an enemy to be feared,” Albus responded, and the cryptic tone, the serene acceptance of death, made Aberforth angry. Not that either brother had been expecting Aberforth to stay calm for long. Anger was his primary emotion whenever Albus was concerned, so even upon learning of his brother’s imminent doom, he couldn’t help but rely on frustration to overrule acceptance. 

For the first time in a long time, Aberforth raised his voice. “Don’t pull that saintly shite with me, Albus Percival.” The reminder of his middle name, the use of their father’s name against him, brought out the first human emotion Aberforth had seen in his brother all night-shame. “You’re going off to meet your death, and you think you can comfort me with clichés and cryptic words of comfort. I am not one of your students, Albus. Nor am I a precious Order member who thinks your words are divine law. I am your brother, for the love of Salazar, and I demand truth from you, for the first time in my entire existence!” 

He was red in the face and breathing in huffs, but the words seemed to have broken some sort of barrier between them, because Albus had fallen to his knees, and was looking up at his brother with fear blatant in his face. “I don’t want to die, Aberforth,” Albus murmured, as a tear leaked from his eye. Neither brother could remember the last time Albus had cried. “But what more have I on earth than my life to give as sacrifice? Who will really miss me when I’m gone-besides a handful of people who still aren’t sure if they love me or they hate me?”

“I don’t hate you, Albus,” both brothers were surprised by how easily the lie fell from Aberforth’s lips. It hung between them for a moment like a beautiful façade they both knew they had to break. Almost one hundred years of bitterness and grief fueled Aberforth’s hatred for his brother, but the love Aberforth had for Albus still outshone the hate, which allowed the fragile lie to linger between them longer than it should have. Aberforth had never quite learned how to deny the truth. 

So threw the first stone, and the lie shattered at his feet between them. “I do hate you,” it was the first time in a long time that Aberforth had made the declaration aloud, “But then, I hate myself as well. And sometimes, in the quiet hours, I remember Gellert enough to hate him too.” Bringing his eyes down to meet Albus’ he asked, “Does he know about this?” 

“Gellert? Oh, yes,” Albus replied, not bothering to look sorry for telling his lover about his plans before he told his brother, “Yes, I went to visit him one last time the other day. Arabella’s fireplace is still hooked up to the nearest wizarding town. He…well he told me that he had’t breathed or bled outside of Hell in more than fifty years, so what right did he have to interfere with those who could still claim to be among the living?” Albus looked away, and after a few moments of gazing at the wall, he added. “Then he kissed me.” The additive was said in a tone almost wistful, but definitely amazed. That kiss was closure fifty years in the making, and Aberforth wanted to feel disgusted, but the smile on his brother’s face made that nearly impossible. 

“You’re my older brother,” Aberforth said, instead, without precedence. “You’re Albus Dumbledore and you’re the best Wizard to walk the earth in almost a millennium. How am I supposed to be okay with you throwing your life away?” If his tone was pleading or sad, neither brother acknowledged it. “I never liked you, Albus, but…loving you never seemed to be optional.”

It was the closest thing love Albus was ever going to get. In a moment of weakness, his head fell forward to rest on his brother’s knobby knee. Aberforth placed his hand behind Albus’ head and gave him what could have passed as a brotherly embrace-had they been any other family. “I love you too, Aberforth,” Albus whispered to his brother’s feet. They stayed like that for what could have been a moment and what could have been hours. Two of the most powerful wizards in the world were clinging to each other at the end of it, letting years of anger, grief, and bitterness melt away with their tears. 

“Do you think it will be enough?” Aberforth asked, later, when Albus had pushed himself to his feet and Aberforth had made them both tea. “This fearless sacrifice you’re planning. Do you think being the Order’s sacrificial lamb will be enough to stay the slaughter of everyone who gets in Riddle’s way?” There was no more fear in Aberforth’s voice, just a tone of melancholy that ran deeper than any sadness ever could. 

Albus finished his cup of tea and tried to force a smile. “I think it may be the only way to give them a running start,” he said, this time without the cryptic overtones or the beseeching look, “I think it may be the only way for them to win.” At some point in the past two years, Albus had separated his brother and himself from the fight. This, he had told Aberforth one night, was not their fight. They were too old to march as soldiers into the fray. That didn’t stop either Dumbledore from fighting, but it made them both feel as though-win or lose-the end of the war would result in the end of everything for them. Aberforth wouldn’t admit it, but deep down, he felt the same. 

“I should be leaving, Ab,” Albus excused himself, getting out of the chair. “I have other affairs to settle before the end.” And he made it sound as if life were a story to be put aside for later and reread until the pages were frayed and the words were permanently ingrained in Aberforth’s memory. “I hate to rush. I trust you’ll forgive me?” 

Aberforth smiled then, a small, sad smile that would have belied any bitter words he could have said then. His reply was soft: “Maybe one day.”

Those were the last words Aberforth ever said to his brother. They weren’t articulate and they didn’t sound pretty coming from his chapped lips and raspy throat, but they were true. And for both of them, that meant more than anything. Albus offered Aberforth his good hand, and they shook as though they were friends, which is something both knew they had never been. 

:::

A week later, while standing in the front of Albus’ funeral gathering, Aberforth touched the stone of his brother’s tomb with his hand. “I guess, now, it’s my turn to do something magnificent,” he whispered to the cold marble. “I hope you were right.” He looked out across the Black Lake for a moment, then to the people gathered behind him, and when his eyes returned to the tomb he added:

“I hope your love for them is enough to redeem your sins, Albus. And I hope somewhere along the line, in all that the world threw at you and everything they took from you. I hope that despite everything they put you through, they’ve earned this.”


End file.
